Twisted
by ariette
Summary: A tale about fighting off the demons around you, the demons controlling you and the demons within you. The angels never saved Dean, and he never went to Sam's rescue. Somewhat Bela-centric, set a year after Dean's deal. Sam/Ruby, minor Dean/Bela.
1. Prologue

**Twisted;**

_A tale about fighting off the demons around you, the demons controlling you and the demons within you._

The angels never saved Dean, and he never went to Sam's rescue.

**Summary:** Under the right circumstances, everyone can adapt. Tigers really can change their stripes if you give them the right incentive. Set on year after Dean's deal was up, Lilith accepted the colt and the angels never rescued the brothers. Evil Sam and evil Dean - not entirely, but you'll see.

**Characters:** Sam, Dean, Bela, Ruby, Alastair and many other OC demons, hunters and the like.

**Pairings: **Sam/Ruby - sort of, minor Dean/Bela.

**Warnings:** A little bit of graphic violence/gore-ish later on. I might end up cursing a little too. Will be updated as I continue to write, because I have a habit of morphing innocent fics in to works of pure horror. I'll try to keep it as clean as possible, I promise.

**Update:** After a long period of my imagination imploding in to a black hole of procrastination and insomnia, I bought myself a coffee machine and did some serious brainstorming. I have this entire fic planned out and waiting for my annoying little inspiration to return. I began on a chapter about halfway in, an it turns out I accidently added a little minor Dean/Bela... because I have no self control like that... and I watched season three over again and my mind was taken over by their ridiculously amazing chemistry?

**Author's Note: **I miss season three. Bela was awesome, and season three Ruby was awesome too. But this story involves season four Ruby, though it definitely has klepto' Bela.

Begins as three different story lines, eventually coming together as a single plot. Mostly Bela-centric.

Reviews are luff. :) I'll heart you for it. Short teaser/prologue, because my muse leaves me after about five minutes... urgh. Tell me what you think.

* * *

_365 days in a world without Dean Winchester..._

Sam lay on the bed beside Ruby as she cooed soothing words. Scarlet liquid ran down her arms - she waved it around him. Drops left crimson dapples on the sheets, but she didn't care. _You know better, Sam, _he told himself. A familiar metallic taste, and he swallowed. His body buzzed as a cold chill ran through him. He didn't trust her, he told himself he never really did. He gasped for breath the best he could, but greedy lungfuls were not enough.

"You're almost there," she whispered.

It didn't hurt, but it made him writhe on the sheets. Nights with Ruby almost always ended that way one way or another. Sam opened his eyes to see her smiling - friendly and quite convincing - but he knew better. Ruby was waiting. He knew that he wasn't helping anyone but himself, and that he was far from doing the right thing, but power lust controlled him. He was afraid that would happen, but he was miles away from the point of no return. His sub-conscious always brought himself to her. He knew he shouldn't have stayed, but he always did.

He started off wanting revenge. Revenge for Dean. She told him it was the only way - and he believed her. She manipulated him. The first time _it_ happened, he was scared. He was terrified. Out of control, hypnotized by the new found rush. He told himself that the adrenaline surge wasn't worth it. Sam avoided her for weeks, but she found him. He told her he didn't want it any more, he didn't want vengeance for a price like that. He was lying.

Black flashes flickered before his eyes. It was happening again. Sam heard her laugh, almost cackle, victorious.

_You know better._

* * *

_11 years in a world without Abby Talbot..._

Bela took her hands away, folding them in her lap. She sat cross legged on the carpet waiting for an answer.

_He's coming, Abby._

She watched the words form before her. Her body shivered as she mouthed the name of her former self. The little girl she'd left behind a lifetime ago. Chills ran down her spine, realization hitting her like a bullet. Bela folded her arms around her. Her nails left red marks along her skin.

"He can't be," she whispered.

_He's coming for you._

She bit her lip. The spirits rarely had any reason to lie, as far as she knew. They were dead, and that wouldn't change. So was he. He was gone. Gone for good.

"How?" Bela asked, holding her breath, hoping that she had just misunderstood the message. She dug her nails further in to her arms.

She furrowed her brows. No response. She asked again. Still no response. Bela sighed and unfolded her arms, placing them on either side of her. If he was coming, she had to go. She stood up, rushing over to a closet. Inside was a collection of items she had kept in case of emergency situations. Trinkets, spell books and other bits and pieces. She needed something powerful - protection. Something to keep her safe, keep him away. Bela desperately fumbled through the contents of the shelves. Nothing. She sighed again, frustrated, rethinking her plans.

Running. He would find her, she wouldn't get far. No mercy for what she'd done. He'd told her _"you deserve it"_, and to the day she still believed him. She didn't know anything else. She didn't know the comfort of loving arms, the soothing words of family and friends. Bela was still scared, she was always scared. Restrained by chronic fear, she avoided close relationships. Clients, associates and business contacts. Nothing more. She needed something to hide herself. If he was coming, she needed to be prepared. Her hands shook as she picked up her cell phone. She needed to call someone.

Anyone.

* * *

_120 years in a world without hope..._

Dean stood alone in an empty room. Dark, cold - as always. Much unlike the common perception of Hell - no firey brimstone, just frozen shadows and the chilling voices of other souls. No warmth, no comfort. Blood spatter covered the floor fittingly. He couldn't see much past a few feet, but he doubted the was anything else. It was unusually still. No screams in agony, no cries for help. He savored the silence. It wouldn't be long before he had to return once again. New mission, more bloodshed. He coughed quietly, then yawned. He was tired, but there was no rest in Hell. No sleep. Fatigue was just another daily suffering. His limbs ached, bloody and bruised. His eyes almost drifted shut before he was startled by a surrounding echo.

"Have you considered my offer?" A familiar, haunting voice asked.

_Alastair._

"What do I have to do?" Dean asked, voice choking and dry. He looked around for the source of the noise, spotting him on the other side of the shadowed room.

"You're going top side. Out, Dean. How does that sound?" Alastair gave him a sly, twisted grin. _Out._ Dean's heart skipped a beat at that one word. An escape. No more blood, no more bruises. No more agony, broken bones. No more wounds that never healed. No more blood on his hands. "Or you stay here and get back to work, and we'll discuss in another few decades. What do you say, Dean?"

He was now in front of him, an arm's length away. Dean knew there would be a catch, there always was. Be he smiled, for the first time since he could remember.

"I want out."


	2. Just Like The Leaves, Change In Color

So.

Yep, I'm alive. I know, I know. Amazing!

I was going through my documents and found the unfinished first paragraph of this chapter and somehow managed to write out the rest. Can't say I remember _exactly_ where this story was headed, let alone this chapter, but I'm happy with the story plan for now.

If enough of you spam me, I might actually get around to writing chapter two. I'm feeling motivated. Though, don't hold your breath. I doubt it's worth that kind of anticipation anyway.

For those of you who care, here it is…

* * *

Dean's eyes flashed black. He didn't feel it, but he knew by the look on the man's face - pure shock, terror and disbelief. He didn't know his name or why he had to die. He didn't care, not even the slightest. He was sent only to bring back his soul, not to be empathetic or apologetic.

He'd decided on the weapon. A bullet was so distant, so disconnected. The same could be said for a simple twist of his hand. His new weapon of choice was much more intimate, much more fun.

He brought the glistening blade up to his victim's throat - close enough that he could feel the chill of the metal with every breath. A distorted grin stretched across his face.

_Three. Two. One._

One swift motion took the breath from his lungs, driving the knife in to his chest. He heard the sound of his ribs cracking and flesh giving way to the intruding weapon. He didn't scream, but he coughed, spluttering, and pulled his body backward. _You're only making it worse. _Dean smiled, watching the life drain from the stranger's eyes. It was almost surreal.

He pulled the dagger out of his torso and drove it in to his throat. He breathed a choked, desperate gasp. Dean twisted it to the left, then to the right. Not too far, just enough to make his last seconds more agonizing than they already were. A last muted cry, and his futile attempts to escape ceased. Blood pooled on his shirt and the soft caramel carpet as his body went limp and lifeless.

Dean let go of his shoulder, the only thing holding him up, and let him fall in to a bloody heap on the floor. He was just the shell of a human now, insignificant. Red footprints stamped the ground behind Dean as he walked away.

* * *

A rhythmic knock rang at door somewhere past two in the morning. Bela unlocked the door and left it closed, scurrying back to putting away the plates she had forgotten about hours before.

"You're up late," a familiar voice teased, followed by the sound of a door latching. "Isn't past your bed time?"

Bela snickered, _hypocrite._ "You arrived late, Blake. I called you over three weeks ago," she retorted from the kitchen. She was starting to think he wouldn't actually show up.

Making her way to the living room, she was greeted by a man in his mid-twenties, who was attired in a collared shirt and all-business pants - complete with a leather belt - with his nostalgic Chuck Taylors that didn't quite fit in. Blake could probably pass as in his late teens if he tried. Dark tousled curls and slight stubble complemented his kind blue eyes, and a sweet smile added to his deceivingly approachable, almost innocent, appearance. He stood with his hands in his pockets and a slight tilt to his head.

"At least I'm here," he said with a coy curve to his lips. "So what is it you urgently needed to talk about?"

"It was urgent when I called you," she said, rolling her eyes. "Next time, try to be prompt, yeah?"

He simply shrugged a shoulder and gave her one of his endearing puppy-dog looks. It half annoyed her, and half made her want to smother him with a hug.

"Four years ago? I'm sure you can recall," she paused to let his memory remind him, though it was likely he remembered the second she had called. Blake nodded slightly as a signal to continue. "I hear you specialize in protection charms now. Well, I'm calling in that favor you owe me." Bela gestured towards the chair beside him.

"I'd be glad to help," he lied, taking a seat. Blake read like an open book, in large print. "After all, what are friends for?" _Friends. Of course!_

In Bela's profession, being in debt of anyone was to be avoided like the plague. Blake had been unlucky enough to owe Bela his life. Bela was lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time, and unintentionally earned herself a person to call upon in a dire situation. Obliged to come running to her rescue the same way she had.

'_There is no honor among thieves'_ didn't apply in her field of expertise_. _Working alone could only get you so far, collaborating the knowledge of many was much more efficient, though the final rewards were rarely divided between the , courtesy among colleagues was essential – the benefits couldn't be argued – though the same couldn't be said for those who get in the way of business.

"So what is it that even Bela Talbot herself can't handle?" He said with mock astonishment, raising his brows.

"Let's just say, I'm not exactly sure," she stated matter-of-factly. "All I'm aware of is that a person who's death I am responsible for won't remain dead much longer." No need for emotions, this wasn't a therapy session. Just the facts. She didn't need to let on to how much this specific person terrified her, and definitely no need to make Blake curious. _No questions _- though not always entirely followed - was the number one unwritten rule. But even still, she swallowed at the thought of her father and did her best to ignore the chill it sent through her veins. She fought back a cold shudder. _Not now._

She watched his reaction. Not the smug grin she'd expected, just a slight shrug of a shoulder and a quick brow raise.

"Not a problem, I'm guessing you're after the stuff I stash in a three level, top security vault," he smiled. Bela nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't settle for anything less."

She ignored the last unnecessary statement, glancing down at the feline at her ankles. Her cat wrapped its lithe body around her legs then slinked towards her bedroom. She made a mental note to shoo her off the bed later.

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Blake interrupted her idle thoughts. "Let's find out _what_ this mystery baddie is."

* * *

"How are you enjoying the fresh air?" Alastair asked with a twisted smirk. He was wearing the broken body of Dean's last victim, still pale and awkwardly disconnected. "You did quite the job on this one." He patted at an open wound marked by a deep red rosette. Blood trailed from the smothered carpet, and crimson handprints decorated the wall where the deed was done.

"I learned from the best," Dean replied with a forced smile. Flattery. He had learned that too.

Alastair readjusted an out of place rib and continued, "I'm here to make you another proposition."

"So what, being your own personal mercenary isn't enough?" Dean laughed, though it wasn't even the slightest bit humorous. It was just his attempt at making reality seem a little less real.

"Well, if you're going to keep up that attitude we might have to reconsider." They wouldn't, over a century in Hell distorts everyone's sense of civility. A few tasteless jokes didn't mean anything. "I'm sure you're missing your brother."

_Sammy._ Dean's body went numb, weak, boneless. He'd almost forgotten, but not quite. It still gnawed at the back of his mind. He half wished he had let it leave his conscience, it would've been a lot easier that way, letting his morals slip a little - or a lot. Everything would have been easier, but that wasn't the aim. The aim was torture, and they did that brilliantly. They sing-songed Sammy's name once in a while, with a few taunting reminders that he was almost certainly martyring himself for Dean.

"Problem is, he's not on our side." _Our side._ They were a team. Dean, and them. "But we can change that. You want to see him, don't you?"

He did. He wanted to see him. Wanted to talk to him, to tell him he was sorry. To apologize for leaving him like that - leaving him to fend for himself. Sammy hated to admit it, but he wasn't alright alone. Dean was the same, and knew that given the chance, Sammy would probably give everything up just to have him back. Alive. That's how the brothers worked. One for the other.

But he couldn't see him now. Not like that. A killer in disguise - in the body of another victim, this one less torn apart and shredded than the others. He couldn't recall if it was his own work or not. The flesh he was wearing was of a man, close to his age – maybe a little younger - though largely different in appearance. Blond curls, brown eyes, thin but sturdy frame.

Dean didn't say anything in response. He simply lifted his chin a little. An _I'm listening_ gesture.

"Then he needs to be on our side. We can make that happen, you an I." Alastair nodded his head, dramatically, as if he was trying to get Dean to agree. He nodded in return.

Sammy. He could see him again. He was the one person who actually mattered, actually meant anything at all now.

Dean half-smirked, unable to decide between open delight at the thought and a mask of indifference.

"What's the catch this time?"

* * *

Feedback? Constructive criticism? How do you like the story so far?

And don't panic, Dean isn't going to be a baddie forever. We all know he's one of the good guys at heart. Sam didn't feature in this chapter, but be assured he's up to no good elsewhere with Ruby.

Opinions would be lovely.

'til next time.


End file.
